Chapter Forty-Six
Though Bram wrote more books over the following two years, what I recall most are the great difficulties and sorrows that afflicted us. I began to feel that we’d frittered away that early period when the world really was our stage and Bram and I made entrances that turned heads.
I’d wasted so much time feeling bitter towards a man who likely didn’t give me a second thought, and being fearful of a malignant spirit.
I’d always blamed Henry Irving for consuming my husband, draining him of energy and ruining any chance Bram and I had of a normal relationship.
If it wasn’t Henry, I was blaming Bram. But as time passed, I came to understand that I’d allowed them to devour so many of my waking hours.
Likewise, I began to wonder if the spirit or whatever it was that still occasionally haunted me and had metamorphosed into something akin to a shadowy warden, was nothing more than a projection of my own anxieties, my own dread of death, ageing, of being rejected, of public humiliation.
I felt sure that psychoanalyst who was all the rage, Dr Sigmund Freud, would have something to say about it.
I’d kept Phil abreast of most of our situation (I didn’t like to reveal just how grim things were), and whilst I didn’t tell Thornley about our financial tribulations (did Bram?), I maintained regular correspondence.
Poor old Bram is not worse, I wrote. This wet weather stiffens him so; it makes it hard for him to get about. He is an angel of patience, and never complains, and it is so hard for him being so helpless.
That was the crux of it. Bram might smile and pretend he was still his once robust self, but nothing could be further from the truth. Yet he continued to write, accept invitations to speak, to attend opening nights, exhibitions, dinners and clubs, the races.
Then, out of the blue (or so I thought), Lady Ritchie, a writer and editor herself, and the daughter of no less a luminary than William Thackeray, approached Bram with an offer.
Excited about what it might entail, I helped him dress for the meeting.
He looked resplendent in tails and top hat.
Even with a walking stick, he still cut a fine figure.
I paced the drawing room until his return, imagining him being invited to edit some collection, take up a post in a publishing house, accept a contract at an esteemed newspaper. My imaginings were boundless and, it turned out, fruitless.
When he finally hobbled back into the room, I could tell by the look on his face that the news wasn’t good.
I stayed by the window, gripping the back of a chair. ‘What did she say?’
First removing his hat and coat, which he passed to Maria along with his cane, he sank onto the sofa. Maria lingered, wanting to hear. There wasn’t a thing happened in the house that either Maria or Mary didn’t know about. Bram remained stubbornly tight-lipped.
‘Maria, could you please fetch a tea-tray,’ I asked finally.
Flashing a look of disappointment, she went to obey.
‘And bring some more whisky, if you please,’ added Bram.
Somehow, I didn’t think it was for a toast.
The door closed and Bram leaned over and grabbed the poker, breaking up the coal in the hearth with surprising fierceness. Sparks sizzled in protest.
‘I gather whatever it was Lady Ritchie offered you, it wasn’t to your liking.’ I sat in the chair, stiff-backed, hands clasped, trying to ignore the traffic outside. The engine of a motor car was whining.
‘As it happens, she wasn’t offering me anything.’ He ceased prodding.
I pulled a face. ‘I don’t understand. Why did she ask you to attend her if it wasn’t you she wished to engage?’
Bram carefully placed the poker against the hearth. ‘Because,’ he faced me, ‘she wished to utilise your services, my dear.’
‘Me?’ My astonishment knew no bounds. ‘What could she want from me?’
Bram paused, waiting until I met his clear grey gaze. ‘For the princely sum of three shillings six pence, she wanted you to read to her in the evenings.’
A wave of red-hot shame seared my chest, rose up my cheeks. ‘You cannot be serious.’
‘Oh, but I am.’
‘I hope you declined.’
‘I thanked her, Florrie, and then yes, I declined.’
How dare she? Had we fallen so far that Lady Ritchie would deem it appropriate to offer what was akin to charity? ‘Does this mean …’ I began, then pressed my lips together.
‘That our financial troubles are common knowledge? I’m afraid it must, Florrie. How else are we to understand it?’
My vision wavered as I regarded Bram. He was sallow beneath the flush of indignation that coloured his face. So tired-looking, yet also determined. He leaned over and took my hand in his. ‘I don’t want you to worry. I’ll fix this. My publisher has high hopes for my new book.’
We all did. Called Famous Imposters, it was a non-fiction about a range of well-known historical figures and rogues who’d fooled royalty and the public. The most contentious chapter was about the great Queen Elizabeth who, Bram asserted, was really a boy from Bisley.
I held his hand tightly as sparks whirled and burned my mind. Bram, my dreamer, my spinner of tales, my flawed man who seemed destined to forever miss the greatness so many – including me – had believed him preordained for.
‘I do too,’ I said finally and, standing, kissed his soft dry cheek. ‘I do too.’ Without another word, I left.
In the privacy of my bedroom, I lay on the bed and burned with humiliation, railed silently against the unfairness of life, refusing to acknowledge the dark figure in the corner.
Thoughts of our own penury were quickly forgotten when news reached us that Samuel Clemens, who’d proved such a good friend to Bram, a real comfort after the loss of Henry and our change in fortune, had died.
Once more, Bram was thrown into depression.
He locked himself away in the study. He no longer requested I take dictation but soldiered on.
Despite his poor vision and the difficulties he had holding a pen, he started a new novel.
The title was enough to stop the heart: The Lair of the White Worm.
He’d always loved the legends of the Lambton Worm of Durham and the serpents said to have laid waste the land around Bamburgh.
His writing was painstakingly slow, but unceasing; as if he could write away our sorrows.
Not even preparations for Noel and Neelie’s wedding diverted Bram from this new novel and the smaller writing commissions he accepted. I was glad to have something to focus on. Despite the parlous state of our funds, I ordered a new dress.
It was with mixed feelings I attended the dressmakers.
Shown a range of fabrics and accessories, with colours and styles so varied and wondrous, I settled on a pastel pink with black and gold trim – my favourite combination.
Gone were the days when a man could span my waist with his hands.
Like everything else about me, my middle had thickened, my face was broader, my legs and stomach too.
My hair was threaded with almost as much silver as brown.
The dressmaker, Mrs Cardew, resorted to the usual flattery as she measured and draped swathes of silk and taffeta across my shoulders, pushed velvet ribbons under my chin, scolding me for being too hard on myself, assuring me I was still a beauty.
I knew what I saw in the mirror, and it was an elderly woman whose time to dazzle had passed.
It was only when Neelie’s mother, who was sitting with her daughter awaiting her turn to be measured, exclaimed as a mock-up of my gown was pinned against me, ‘Why, Mrs Stoker, that will not do. You’ll eclipse my Neelie in that ensemble!
’ that I examined my reflection with a more objective eye.
Perhaps I wasn’t so bad. I was comparing the girl of my youth to the woman before me. A woman who had lived through much. I was soon to be a mother-in-law, and in time, a grandmother, too. Was I ready?
What woman conscious of time’s weary passage ever was? The role of grandmother announced old age in a manner nothing else quite could. I prayed I’d be ready to embrace it when it came.
I looked at Neelie, chattering away beside her mother, all slender limbs and soft, unmarked complexion.
What kind of mother would she be? Better than me, I’d no doubt.
I’d been an absent mother in many ways. Not physically so much as emotionally.
I don’t think I’d been designed for motherhood. So much for it being woman’s instinct.
Bram and I were better matched than anyone realised.
He’d never embraced being a father … or a husband, either.
But I could look back on our years together and, while those early ones were a trial and I despaired of ever being happy, we’d found a contentment of sorts, hadn’t we?
What was that saying? Familiarity breeds contempt?
With us, it had bred acceptance, and respect.
At least, for me it had, especially as he relied on me more.
It was nice to feel needed, to have a purpose.
‘What are you thinking, Mrs Stoker?’ asked Neelie, rising to stand beside me.
I stared at her in the mirror. She came to my shoulder.
Her eyes were dancing, her mouth mobile.
Yes, she was exactly what us Stokers needed.
New blood: a fresh outlook on life that would chase away the doldrums of the past – and the present.
I prayed she and Noel would find real happiness together, the kind I feared he’d not experienced with me or his father.
Too concerned with making a life beyond Henry Irving’s reach, Noel had been forced to create his own childhood, substituting other adults for Bram and me – I thought of the closeness he had with my mother, with Phil, his Stoker uncles and aunts.
With Mrs Simpson and Nounou Yvette, too.
Now he’d found someone special to build a life with.
‘I was thinking how lucky Noel is,’ I said, reaching for Neelie’s hand and drawing her towards me. ‘How lucky we are that you’re to be part of our family.’
Neelie’s large eyes filled and, much to my surprise, she threw her arms around me.
I froze briefly, then melted into the hug.
In that moment, I believed we were truly blessed.
Two days later, I’d just returned from choosing flowers with Neelie, Violet and Lucy, and was busy removing my hat, when I heard a commotion coming from Bram’s study.
‘Is the master home?’ I asked Maria. I was certain Bram had an appointment at one of the gentlemen’s clubs he frequented to meet a publisher to discuss Hall’s work (and, he secretly hoped, his own).
‘Why yes, Mrs S,’ said Maria, lifting my hat free from my hair, the long pins carefully arranged in her hand. ‘He’s been in his study all morning. Said he didn’t feel up to the Garrick today.’
My heart began to quicken. I glanced at the clock. It was mid-afternoon. There was another thump.
I threw a look at Maria. ‘Something’s wrong.’
I took the steps two at a time, dragging myself up by the banister, Maria close on my heels.
I charged into the study and there, slumped in his chair, face whiter than the pages scattered across the floor, was Bram. His mouth hung wetly open, the left side of his face drooped strangely, as if it were a half-melted candle.
‘Florrie,’ he moaned. At least, I think that’s what he said. His voice was little more than a guttural expiration, the cry of a monster.
‘Bram!’ Oh, dear God, no.
I rushed to his side and heaved him upright. Maria helped by pushing his other side. He was a great lumpen weight. He’d wet his trousers; the smell of urine was pungent. His eyes flickered across our faces, the fear in them was shocking.
‘Florrie.’ My name was a wail. Tears welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
‘Maria,’ I said, inhaling all my terror, my shock. ‘Fetch George Stoker, please. At once.’
Maria raced out of the room as I tucked a cushion down the side of the chair, so Bram didn’t topple. There were calls and cries, the sound of doors slamming. More shouts, a peeler’s loud whistle. A carriage was hailed.
I knelt with my arms around Bram, my cheek pressed into his chest. ‘It will be alright, my dear. I’m here. I have you. Your brother is coming.’ I repeated the words like a mantra, aware of Bram’s body beginning to shake, of the effort it took to try and speak.
‘Hush, hush,’ I tried to soothe. I don’t know how long I stayed in that position, only that while I said one thing out loud, inside, I was praying with all my might to God above that He would look after my husband, make him whole again, bring him back to me.
I refused to show Bram my fear as I silently prayed: Dear Lord, don’t let him die.